I met a guy, great guy, from a terrible land, a failing land,
He said—“Two yuge legs, totally trunkless, made of stone, the best stone,
Just standing there, nothing. . . . And there’s sand, so much sand,
This guy’s face is broken, really, I mean it’s half sunk, he’s got this frown,
And his lip’s all like “mnnnnnnngggg urrrrghhh”, he’s got this sneer, cold sneer, no command,
You know what it says to me? This guy, this sculptor knew his stuff, great sculptor, well-read,
Amazing job, getting recognised more and more, these things, no life in them these things,
He’s got a tiny hand, really tiny, big heart, yuge, he’s fat, he’s well-fed
And on the bottom there’s these words, you don’t even read ‘em, they just appear:
Hey! Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Wall, ye Mighty, and despair!
There isn’t even anything there. We screwed him! there’s just decay;
This whole Wreck, ruined, it goes on forever, really, miles, totally bare,
Flat as a golf course, and where even is the oil? Seriously, where? Far away. Far away.”